


Anatomical Variations

by whathappened



Series: Serial Anastomoses [1]
Category: Medicine - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: 2022huhuhuhu, 2022nakakahiyaaceaux, 2022shooktbakayu, College AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Human Dissection, M/M, ME2, Mutual Pining, Ninja edits, Slow Burn, Swearing, i t r i e d, med puns, rampant nerdery, shameless overuse of romance tropes, shitty metaphors, sovereign state of Denial, started as crack then turned into sap, unquenchable thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whathappened/pseuds/whathappened
Summary: Moore is a tired med student by day and aspiring writer by night. Netter is a genius artist thirsting for inspiration. They meet, somehow, in a flurry of pastel-highlighted pages and the lingering scent of formalin.The story goes like this:Over severed body parts, drunken escapades, chocolate-chip banana cakes and a shared passion for anatomy, a pair of genius idiots fall in love.





	Anatomical Variations

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: petmalu na tokwen mga lodi rak
> 
> I cant believe this is how i break in my ao3 account scljchaudgcefblesudfdjfbddax (first fic in 8yrs rak hahahahuhu)
> 
> Inspired by a twitter thread

Moore is so screwed.

His day had been going fine, thank you very much. He was only ten minutes late for class, his uniform was only slightly muddied, and he hadn’t _completely_ failed the quiz on olfaction (although he wishes he hadn’t mixed up concha and choana, that was such an elementary mistake, what the _hell_ \- ahem.)

His day had been going fine, right up until lunch break and his little shit of a former enemy turned best friend decided it would be a  _splendid_ idea to start a food fight in the middle of props making, because  _we’re testing the role of a compromised vestibulocochlear reflex in the avoidance of high speed projectiles!_   _It’s science!_  Fuck you, Netter. The paint blob he got to the face was well-deserved.

But that isn’t why Moore is currently feeling like an exophthalmic, nystagmus-ing eyeball that can’t decide which way is primary position. No, because when Netter had been (rightfully) declared the perpetrator of the incident and made to stay behind to clean up the mess, Moore had been accused of aiding and abetting and was promptly told to take the same punishment. His aborted attempts at protest had been glared into submission.

Which, fine, Moore can live with that. Spending time with his best friend is hardly a chore (though he wishes it was under other circumstances). But what Moore  _can’t_ live with, what is driving him absolutely  _batshit insane_ , is Netter and his stupid  _everything_.

No, really.

Netter being Netter, he takes every opportunity to spout anatomy facts like the anatomy nerd he is  _(pot, meet kettle)_. They had started start cleaning in opposite sides of the room – there had _definitely_ been at least twenty-meter distance between them – but somehow in between  _flexor digiti minimi brevis of the foot_ and  _pronator quadratus,_ Netter had moved on to surface anatomy and by now has gravitated towards Moore and he  _won’t_.  _Stop. Touching. Him_.

 _I am shaking in anger_ , Moore insists to himself.  _I am absolutely pissed at my hot touchy-feely best friend who keeps distracting me from boring clean-up duty._

“I think the neck was my least favorite part of the anatomy course,” Netter muses, while  _brushing his fingers across Moore’s neck, what the hell._ “They kept talking about triangles and it was so  _boring_.”

Moore knows that Netter is joking, because he has heard Netter wax poetic about the intricacy of anterior cervical triangle and all its delicate fragility and  _it’s so beautiful, Moore! How could anyone hate studying the cervical region?_

“It would have been nice to have a live model or at least better illustrations, right?”

Moore shrugs in response. Dissection would theoretically help, but their school provides about 10 cadavers for almost 300 students, which is not very conducive to gaining practical anatomical experience.

Netter sighs, the puff of air feeling warm on Moore’s cheek. When did he get so close? Netter’s fingers are still on Moore’s neck and they might as well have been a noose for all that he suddenly can’t breathe. Oh, he’s tracing the sternocleidomastoid region.

“The posterior triangle of your neck looks perfect, you know,” Netter leans in, as if to take a closer look. Who the fuck says shit like that unironically? Oh right, Netter. _Obviously_.

(Moore ignores the fluttering in his stomach because he is _not_ flattered, _thank you very much_.)

Netter’s fingers caress the line of Moore’s trapezius, across the middle third of his clavicle ( _occipital triangle_ , Moore’s brain helpfully supplies). Then medially, to the omohyoid and past his _omoclavicular triangle, holy shit, I hope he can’t feel my subclavian pulse._ Moore’s heart is beating frantically out of his chest.  _What the fuck is happening_. “It should be in a book.”

A breath. Two breaths. Netter is looking at him and Moore is drowning in his eyes. Then Netter smirks, slowly, his entire being practically screaming mischief, as his thumb caresses gentle circles by Moore’s clavicles and – presses down, slowly, tenderly, _carefully_ , at odds with the frantic sparks that race down Moore’s spine. Netter’s gaze is dark with – _something_ – and Moore is _gone._  

 _Bite me_ , Moore wants to say. He doesn’t care that the posterior triangle contains the vulnerable occipital artery at its apex, or that it has a lot of important underlying nerves at the nerve point. He ignores his professor’s warnings. He wants to feel teeth nipping at his neck, bites that break skin, wants a bruise that he’ll feel for  _days_ , wants to be  _marked_ , wants something he can’t cover up  _and let everybody know he’s been claimed,_ he _wants –_

“Then draw it,” is what comes out instead. Moore is left shaken by the overwhelming force of his yearning. He hopes Netter mistakes his trembling for excitement rather than - well. Moore doesn’t want to think too deeply about the turn his thoughts have taken. That way lay madness.

 _I am not thirsty for my best friend_ , Moore thinks vehemently.  _I am_ not  _lusting after_ – Netter grabs him in a crushing hug, practically vibrating in excitement and --  _do not think about Netter and vibration in the same sentence, goddamnit brain._  

Moore gives up. He’s as parched as a dying jellyfish in the desert, so what. Nothing a little alone time and choice media can’t fix.

“You’d really let me?” He’d let Netter do _anything_ to him – oh, oops. Bad brain. Leave the gutter please, thank you.

Netter’s eyes are sparkling with glee. It’s a little distracting, to be honest. But then again, Netter is always a little distracting, whenever he’s not actively being an annoyance. Moore doesn’t notice that he’s gaping stupidly before his poor, short-circuiting brain catches up with the auditory signals bombarding it. Crap, he’s been staring too long. What were they talking about, again? Moore tries for a casual shrug and prays to every deity he knows that it looks authentic.

“Yeah, why not? You’re always complaining about the drawings on our anatomy textbooks.” One of the first few things they’d agreed on. “You could make your own illustrations and compile them for the next generation of med students. I bet you could make an amazing atlas.” It actually sounds like a good idea now that he's said it out loud.

Netter is looking at him with a funny expression on his face. Oh god, he said something weird, didn’t he? He’s being presumptuous and insensitive, he  _knows_ Netter has been stuck in a creative rut for almost two years now, and  _no, your well-meaning suggestions don’t actually help_ – fucking hell, they’ve argued over this  _so many times_. Why does he even open his big fat mouth –

“I think I’d like that,” Netter says quietly, his face a study in emotion. He seems so bright like this, broad shoulders set in determination, and Moore can’t look away. “It’d take forever, but,” a breath, “it feels right, somehow. Something worth doing and something I know I’ll love.”

His smile is a tiny, trembling thing, filled with eagerness tempered by uncertainty yet always, always facing ahead. He looks, in this moment, like nothing can touch him, but at the same time like one word could crush his fledgling dreams before they could take flight.

“Will you write a book with me, Moore?” Moore doesn’t think he could bear to be responsible for taking away a smile so precious. He wants to keep seeing a Netter like this, so filled with stubborn determination, looking one step away from charging in recklessly but softened by the palpable love for his art.

The lighting is shitty but Netter seems to be glowing.

“Moore? You spacing out on me, buddy?” Netter looks a bit worried, which is weird. Netter is the type to forge ahead and let nothing, not even his own anxieties, stop him.

Netter is a demanding, arrogant bastard who doesn’t pay attention to the people he pushes aside on his never-ending quest for perfection. But Netter is also sweet and more patient and hardworking than one would expect of a privileged genius, Netter who is always willing to help people and doesn’t stop until all parties are satisfied. He is blunt and opinionated, but he always listens when people argue against him. Netter is braver and kinder than Moore could ever hope to be, and Moore kind of loves him for it –

_Oh._

“Do you want to write the book with me or not?” The demand is made angrily, but Moore thinks he can hear uncertainty underlying the false bravado.  _We’ve come really far from our old rivalry_ , Moore thinks dazedly. Netter’s posturing would have annoyed him before, but now he can’t help but be fond. His lips curl into a teasing grin almost without permission.

“You mean  _I’ll_ write everything while you draw, right? No way am I letting your blasphemous attempts at written English anywhere near a professional manuscript.”

“Hey!”

Netter’s whining is vastly entertaining, but the smile he gives at Moore’s acquiescence is blinding. Moore is helpless in the face of such happiness.

It doesn’t matter that they’re hardly experts on medicine, that they still have three years to go before they could even  _think_ about getting an MD, or that they have absolutely zero authority to go about criticizing an established textbook. Netter is a genius, and Moore would sooner grow a branchial fistula than back down from the challenging glint in Netter’s eyes. They’ll make this work, even if it takes years.

The room is freezing but Moore has never felt more warm.

Later, when their banter winds down and Netter is walking him home, the pair stops in front of Moore’s building and they lapse into comfortable silence. Netter is still covered in paint from the afternoon’s incident, the _slob_. His shirt is wrinkled and horribly stained with sweat and gravy and various questionable fluids.

Moore has never seen anyone more beautiful.

“See you tomorrow, yeah? We can start on that first draft for our future international bestseller.” Netter says this with an audacious wink but his tone is soft and fond.

Heart hammering in his chest, Moore thinks he can’t be blamed for how his breathless  _yes_ sounds so much like a promise for many things he’d much rather be left unsaid.

Moore is so screwed.


End file.
